


The Charade

by brittlelimbs



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, M/M, Office Sex, Possessive Behavior, Virgin Kylo Ren, Virginity or Celibacy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:26:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8596165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: Hux gets off on making celibate virgin!Kylo watch him have sex with other people while being just as filthy about it as possible. Written for the kylux hard kinks prompt.





	

**Author's Note:**

> well
> 
> im supposed to be doing finals but
> 
> thanks to whoever prompted this shit, you're brilliant

Kylo Ren is no stranger to pleasure.

 

In fact—he’s a _connoisseur_ of pleasure, albeit of a particular sort. Eeking out little mouthfuls where the universe allows. Sipping and savoring the way his rough-hewn robes abrade against his skin, just uncomfortable enough to edge at his awareness, keep him from softening as he walks among the ranks of cowards. The subduction-borne weight of natural gravity that hangs on his bones when he arrives planet side after too long in space, making his steps feel heavy enough to matter; to this, the certain ritual of descending from the belly of his shuttle like a black point that draws all light to its maw and swallows: primitive worlds call him _Dark Thing_ and the sight of him is terrible. That is pleasure.

 

His saber in his ungloved hand, too, but a different kind, so heavy and competent and cold, craggy nodes of history fit intimately to the soft webbing between his thumb and index finger. Icewater. Simply that. When officers can’t read his expression beneath the mask and it makes them _nervous_. Brutal pleasure, when he’s sweating so hard with his training that he feels fit to slip from his skin and bones and his Knights, reverent of things they fear, drawn to the edge of death all stupidcrazy and fascinated, flock to fight him. Lap the sweat rolling in from his hairline and dripping down to his lashes, whole body taut enough to split at his next course shout.

 

The Force is its own pleasure, one that Kylo finds hard to articulate. It burns and it shines. There is no other way to describe this.

 

So when Hux rudely introduces him to a new type of pleasure, a thing he can hardly contain within the bounds of that word, Kylo is pieces.

It starts little. In fact, Hux isn’t even there in person, something that will irk Kylo to no end later: it’s Gamma shift and Mitaka has a bite on his neck that doesn't resemble anything remotely familiar, fat and nebulous, indulgent-looking just by the principle of it. He notices it, ironically, when he has his hand gripped around Mitaka’s swan-lithe throat, trying to wring the competency from him. They are slipping within their war. Bureaucracy is failing them; Hux is mad. Or perhaps Kylo is mad, driven so by the itch of the scavenger against everything he is, her consciousness whisping just-so at the corner of him. He hasn’t been sleeping, much, has he?

His glove creaks against Mitaka’s neck, and there it sits, blown dark in muted console light (no glowing heaps of slagged-up tech, this time, _too expensive_ ), peeking above the collar of his grip. A curious bruise. At this moment, there are larger metaphorical fish to fry in Kylo’s universe; things proceed.

“Find her,” he groans, old with this fight.

Mitaka froths by way of answering. This is the response Kylo expected. With little effort, he switches strategies: the texture of Mitaka’s mind is feeble, battered, and Force-mute beneath the staggering capableness of his own. _FIND THE GIRL_. He takes the words and deftly slips them beneath the surface of Mitaka’s consciousness so this pathetic little orderly will fucking hum with his purpose. Will stand possessed of nothing else, walk the hallways to the staccato _clip-clip-clip_ of their syllables _,_ dream of their sacred meaning while he sleeps—

 

Full. Begging to be _full._  

 

Kylo halts.

 

Rising gooey from the subconscious murk: pleasure. Intense and heavy and very much Hux. He finds, at once, a need. He needs the General to rut their two bodies together until they wet themselves with the slick creaminess of their semen. Kylo is possessed with the idea that his body was made for this, one purpose, divined; he wants Hux to take a fat fingerful of the spend that’s pearled across his stomach and slick his ass with it, so they can go again. It’s feverish.

Some hazy space between _this time_ and _again_ Hux bites them, hard, cheekily high up so their uniform collar won’t hide it tomorrow. He’s not sure if it’s Mitaka or him or some sick combination of both, but they’re squirming with the sheer _goodness_ of it. _General,_ somebody groans, and it sounds like a prayer.

 

Mitaka falls hard.

 

He crumples on the ground for a sad moment like a heap of cloth before gathering up the scraps of himself and scuttling away in terror, ruddy-faced, eyes budding wet with tears at the edges. Kylo awkwardly rights his arm by his side. The crotch of his trousers pulses hot and stiff, full ( _not in the way you need_ , hints the glamour), and it’s mortifying.

 

Mitaka is gone. Kylo’s neck stings horribly, and he stands there, rubbing at it for a moment, feeling sorry for himself. Dumbstruck. The monitors blink their condolences.

_Hux._

At once, he gets his shit straight again, hands to fucking attention, away from the phantom kissbite _thing_ and towards the duty of roughly shrugging his cloak back into alignment. Kylo’s helmet feels claustrophobic, peculiar. The aftertaste of Hux is lingering in him like a poison and really, now that he considers it, if he’s being honest, if he must speak truthfully—he hasn’t been sleeping, lately, at all.

 

This trend continues. Things escalate. It isn’t that Kylo wasn’t _aware_ of that pleasure before, per say, but never has it been so irritatingly persistent. A week passes, no Hux, and he still finds himself stifling a groan at these precious few seconds of memory he hijacked on accident. His own wretched flimsi, stuck on repeat. He tries everything; things he hasn’t done since he was twenty and new to the darkness, back when he was having these urges much more often. He starts coping with the tightness in his leggings most mornings by showering, meditating, or hitting the training room to run. He, Kylo Ren, Master of the Knighs of Ren, _jogs._ He rises every day long before his summons to greet the blue of his chambers, and in this private kind of darkness, comforts himself with the thought that this was Snoke’s suggestion, initially.

_Your body betrays you, apprentice. Does it not?_

Even in the regulation fatigues and undershirt, he’s too big; he sticks out. Most of the sleepy cadets on the track with him before their morning shifts give him looks, the slap of their shoes receding behind as he passes, but don’t say anything, insipid as ever. Thank stars for the mask. They just think he’s some kind of bulked-up militia, maybe, or Hux’s new pet project.  Special ops unit, bred to crush the Resistance beneath his boot heel, trooper armor made custom to stretch across the broadness of his chest. In the training room, others give him a wide birth. Kylo is a little proud; he made himself this.

It's exhausting in equal turns. Chasing the pleasure takes him so much longer than it used to, in those untouched days, and he ends most mornings incredibly frustrated. He runs until his body is screaming, legs and lungs on fire, and the cycle is wicked: once he’s done, it’s time for him to shuck free of his disguise, drag himself, step by protesting step, into the tepid embrace of his fresher, and begin his day as a specter.

A specter that gets hard at every fucking inconvenience.

His body used to do this for seemingly no reason at all, when he was young. Something about just _living_ was plenty enough for him. If he woke up too well rested, or if he ate a particularly delicious food, he’d find himself—what’s the word? Aroused. He gave no cultivated effort to nurse or repress these moments other than a faint-wishing away; his swollen cock was needy, but not unbearable, and his resistance a sign of his strength. Naturally, as he stripped his life clean and filled himself with the Force, these moments dwindled. The ascetic life offers little in the way of stimulation, and Kylo took— _takes_ —pride in it.

For the first time in his life, that pleasure is figured, and it’s terrifying.

 

Two days later and Kylo sees that Mitaka hasn’t found the girl, just more bruises. When he hurries into their meeting they’re ringed around his neck like a stranglehold, and Kylo is too afraid to lay a finger on the man, even with his gloves, but he doesn't have to; these bruises have a sound and taste and texture, now, undiluted by the distance of formality between them. It’s too much. Mitaka’s mind trembles and it’s nearly enough to bring Kylo to his knees: a cheek rasping at his own, stubbled with too many shifts in conjunction. A warm hand wrapped confidently around his hip. The feeling of buttery fingertips rubbing, whispering, gently against his pebbled nipples—stars, could anything _feel_ so good, Kylo doesn't know, isn’t sure.

Mitaka gives a little, dignified cough.

 

Kylo starts running so early that the days have no definitive beginning nor end.

 

Two days longer, and Hux and Kylo brush together on the bridge. Though brushing together is putting it generously; Kylo is too afraid to approach him.

The General looks righteous standing there in his uniform, the gauzy arms of the Umbara Galaxy lazily unspooling behind him in the viewport, making the outline of him softer with the white-burn of cold, primordial gas. If Kylo were an artistically minded man, perhaps he might have seen the geometric lovliness cut by that greatcoat, appreciated his russet hair, called the tableau painterly. Beautiful, even. Hux ruins this perfectly by calling out to the petty officers below, scrambling to his scrupulous bidding.

The beauty was fantasy; he should have known. Kylo storms about the rear deck, sheepishly shaking it out through his sensible boots.

 

He dreams that night of cocksucking and stars. Hands in Hux’s hair that wring nebula upon nebula from its softness, plush mouth doing things to Kylo’s dick that meld into a continuous smear of pleasurable dreamspace.

When he wakes, he turns into his pillow and screams.

 

Later. Kylo doesn’t know by how much. Days don’t make sense now. He’s in a corridor, fixing for a grunt to bully his anxiety into ( _scavangergirlsnokethewrathfulpleasurepleasureplea—)_ when, all at once, there he is. His nightmare turns but-not-quite to look at him, peeking behind over the slope of his shoulder, a petty little greeting that breaks the svelteness of his silhouette. His eyelashes are nearly translucent. It’s arresting to see him in the flesh. Kylo has been dreaming of rutting on this man’s cock for the past week, even if he isn’t quite sure how the mechanics of that would _work_ , exactly, and he’s sick with it. Sick of falling into the fitful sleep of the yearning, his hands firmly _not_ on his own blistering need, gripped to the headboard above him instead, clenched across his chest, hellish. His shoulders ache with it.

After blinking lazily for a moment, Hux returns to his chit, nape of his neck peeking up as his head tilts down. Fuck you. Kylo floods to his side in an instant, unsure, honestly, of whether he wants to hurt him or fuck him.

“Your search,” he says, right-straight to the point. “Fruitless.” He’s vaguely pleased with how the vocoder makes his voice rough compared to Hux’s, matching the General’s stride as he waits for that shrill voice, those manicured consonants and tart timbre. Little irritations to remind him how appealing Hux _isn’t._

Hux does none of those things. He simply looks up into his mask, catching his tongue between his lips, as if pausing at something to say, and Kylo nearly swoons at the sight of it.

He says something quietly that Kylo can’t quite catch; might be the blood in his ears, those damned stars in his eyes. Then—smiles.

“What?” Kylo feels like he’s trying to play catch-up in a game he never started playing in the first place.  
Hux huffs and turns on his heel, eyes firmly back on his work, doubling back the way they came. “You’ll go mad with it,” he calls.

The voice echoes rudely around in Kylo’s helmet as he waits for the words to make sense.

_You’ll go mad.  
You’ll go mad. _

On the day Hux is right, it’s moring, though it can hardly be classified as such, hours on the chronometer too little to mean anything but limp exhaustion. Kylo can barely see the lines on the track in front of him, nothing but muscle-memory guiding his stride as he beats the path straight and left and straight and left and he can feel the sweat beading at his armpits and temples, salty, stinging. His mind is empty, save for the raw rhythm of his breath, and that’s how he likes it.

When he finally slows to a halt, hands on knees, gasping, he feels a little flicker of apprehension in his gut for reasons he can’t name. Something’s not right: when he returns to the locker room, there’s an officer in full dress waiting outside it. Immediately, Kylo looks around; by some lucky, it’s empty. Kylo checks the chronometer on his comm and the hour makes him groan. Explanation enough.

“Lord Ren,” the officer says, thin lipped and dour. “Your presence has been urgently requested in the General’s offices.”

Kylo shivers at Hux’s title.

He scoffs, suddenly self-conscious of how naked his voice sounds, how stupid he looks in the athletic uniform. “What for?”

“Not my place to say, sir. I was only told that I was to be discreet and swift.”

Discreet. Something about the word in conjunction with Hux is already conjuring trembling fantasies of lowlit bedrooms, soft touches, clandestine bruises— at once, Kylo is disillusioned. _This_ is madness.

“Now?” he croaks, pitiful. He is going insane.

“Yessir. Orders were to collect you immediately,” says the officer. Kylo Ren doesn’t know if he’s ever been _collected,_ as such, even as he nods. Some sick part of him flushes at the sound of it, and it takes him a second to remember to be self-aware; everything is exposed on his face, plain to see. He half-hearts a scowl while the officer regards cooly regards him.

“He’ll have to wait for me to change, at least.”

 

It’s been a good few weeks he’s seen Hux’s office and the door looks so innocuous for something with the power to make Kylo sweat so much. He feels rank underneath his robes; debated cleansing off in the fresher, but something about the nervous thrum in his blood made it impossible to waste more time than he absolutely had to. The old stickiness feels stale and sickly beneath his underclothes, exertion layered on flopsweat. He can feel fine tremors in his hands, so he clenches them. Unclenches. Nothing in his life has ever been earned by hesitation, and there’s no point in starting now; Kylo reaches to wave the door open and the officer takes a shrewd step forwards, half-barring him from entering.

“Without the helmet, please, my lord,” he says, looking politely at a spot hovering somewhere above Kylo’s head.

Kylo grunts in annoyance, even as he feels his arms rise, as if they were not his own, and the whirring clink-hiss of his helmet’s seal sounds like a dream, propelled by something he cannot name. Perverse curiosity, maybe, this wrongness, this need. The sudden breath of recycled air against his gross-tacky cheeks feels good, and this seems to be a sign of shaky reassurance. Yes. No helmet. That’s fine.

 _All the better to behold Hux with_ , thinks the crazy in him. With that, Kylo enters the lion’s den with no defense save for the reliability of his own wits, and honestly, he _wishes_ he were afraid.

If the idea of General Hux looked painterly before, perhaps this is cinematic. Kylo’s swallow catches halfway down his throat. The lights are dimmed, a nod to his fleeting fantasy, and the drab office has become rich and velveteened with an electrifying edge of _potential_. Kylo isn’t entirely sure what he expected, but he knows it wasn’t something this explicit. The players: Mitaka, in shocking half-repose across Hux’s stately desk in nothing but his jacket, undone, splayed around the glow of his pale, piqued chest, and Kylo can’t see what’s hidden between the vee of those legs, but he’s smart enough to guess.

Hux himself is as Kylo saw him in the corridor, full dress, not a wrinkle in the placket of his uniform, collar pressed, gloves on. Where Hux has reached over, Mitaka’s leg is bent up, an odd sort of give-and-take of space that strikes Kylo immediately; if this man’s body is a country, a planet, a starsystem, Hux has conquered it. Kylo’s own self quakes with jealousy, all lonely sovereignty.

 

“General Hux,” he says, with the same trepidation of a stranger in an unknown house.

 

Might as well have stayed silent, for all the change it brings. Hux makes no move to rise from Mitaka’s side, running a hand over the smoothness of the officer’s calf, ankle to knee, as if he is a relic and Hux is simply appraising him. The hiss of leather on skin is obscene; Kylo’s mouth goes dry, and he coughs, while he juggles his helmet awkwardly under one arm to try and—do something. Anything. Break the spell of this, his witnessing of Mitaka’s wonderful, horrific consumption.

The General continues his tyranny, dark as oil and twice as dangerous, out and down as he leans in between Mitaka’s spread legs, both hands bracketed on the desk outside the officer’s feet. Kylo has never seen two people move with each other this way before and it’s mesmerizing.

 

“Have you ever been touched?” Hux asks into the crook of Mitaka’s knee. His voice is cannonfire in the womb of the office. Mitaka simply teeters lower on his elbows, craning back further to give his general more room to work. “Has another person ever done this, to you?”

Hux kisses, gently, the soft skin of Mitaka’s trembling thigh. It’s an open-mouthed thing, Hux’s jaw rounding lewly open and lips pressing wide and pink against milky skin, excruciatingly slow; Kylo thinks he sees a little glint of slick tongue, somewhere in the kiss, but it could be the light. Or his sickness.

He doesn’t realize that he’s waiting for an answer until Mitaka tips his head back to groan and he feels disappointed at the lack. Hux has jumped to feasting on the skin of his belly, now, hands shifted to his hips. Kylo couldn’t look away if he tried.

“ _Mmph_ ,” Hux muffles, mouth full. Kylo catches a glimpse of Mitaka’s red cock as Hux takes it and in hand, and then he’s craning down, and then he’s—

Mitaka sits up like a bolt, making the jacket _shuff_ from around his shoulders and down onto his biceps, baring a whole fresh slice of skin to Kylo, who is a wreck at _all of it_. He feels, in some part, as if he hasn’t seen so much of a person in _years_ ; the nubbed curve of the neck, the spine, is incredibly erotic, maybe moreso than the filthy slipshine-wet sounds of Hux working Mitaka with his mouth. Kylo’s free hand shudders from his side, to his saber, to ghosting over the thick layers of dark wool at his crotch, tender, aching. _You’ll go mad;_ he has, in full. This is a whole new set of expressions he has to interpret, an entirely alien vernacular of body language, curved backs and curved mouths and the lovely broken-openness of Mitaka’s face as Hux works at him lustily.

Hux’s head breaks the hold of Mitaka’s clawed hands for a moment:

“Touch, Kylo,” he says, voice delicious and hoarse. “Tell me.”

The question is a lightning strike. Hux has been talking to _him_. Kylo feels his cock pulse against his leg, traitorous and needy. “I—I—“ he stammers.

Hux huffs a laugh as he kneels down in full, prim heels of his boots sticking up as he tucks his legs beneath him, Mitaka trembling on the desk edge above. He gives another wet kiss to Mitaka’s weeping head.

“Your kind is strange. Such emphasis on _chastity_.” The word sounds crisp and peaked in Hux’s mouth, cruel almost, the perfect taunt. “Do you think it’s because he doesn’t understand? Snoke, I mean? How it is to be human.” He licks a lazy stripe into the tender seam between Mitaka’s cock and thigh.

Mitaka melts, Kylo melts, and Hux continues.

“Have you ever touched yourself, at all?”

Kylo’s mind is reeling, all dizziness and refracted pleasure. “No—Well, I, um—“

He has, but much too long ago for it to count as anything more than a few flustered, perspiring memories, a phase of curiosity in his own body that was soon slaked.

_You were always meant for greater things, Kylo._

Hux pulls off of Mitaka with a slurp. The back of Mitaka’s hand flies to his mouth; Kylo distantly realizes he’s been ordered not to speak.

“Not enough to count, then,” Hux says, and Kylo can hear the smile in his voice. Fucking cocky.

“Untouched, practically. Pathetic. You, _desk_.” Hux stands, stepping back from Mitaka so he has space to slide off the lip of the desk, jacket parting perfectly to show off his glistening cock, and arrange himself behind it. Which is to say: bent at the waist, braced on his forarms, ass in the air. _Oh_. The bewildering holovid-ness of it all strengthens tenfold with the wanton sound of Hux unzipping his fly, still in full dress head to toe, and unpacking himself so he can enjoy a few brisk pumps of his hand.

“Come, Kylo, be— _ah_ —good,” he says, and the look in his eyes if far-off, away; as he slithers around the desk to arrange himself behind Mitaka, Kylo suddenly realizes: as good as this is for him, for Hux? It’s _better_.

Hux smooths two hands down Mitaka’s sides and hips, rucking up the jacket, his pick cockhead slipping between the officer’s cheeks. This is the closest thing to sex Kylo’s ever seen and his pulse is so high in his ears that he knows his face is crimson with it. He wonders at what point feeling this way could be considered mutinous, and whether or not he’ll care.

“I require a favor,” Hux says, abruptly, something glittering in his eyes that Kylo can’t quite decipher. _Anything_ , he thinks. “What,” he grunts.

“There’s a bottle in that cabinet there. I’m afraid I can’t reach it.” Hux nods his head, smile flirting at his lips, thumbs rubbing little circles in a holding pattern at the soft small of Mitaka’s back.

Kylo finds himself following orders. His cock is a red-hot line in his trousers, guilty, as he pops open the plasisteel panel and selects a little silver vial from an assortment of political detritus: styluses, cafés, and what appears to be a very fine set of brandy tumblers.

 

Hux is even more dangerous up close. His hair’s mussed, Kylo notices as he hands him the bottle, a few strands loose against his forehead, and somehow that’s enough to make him look nearly deranged. He fantasizes that he feels a spark ping between their hands when they touch, despite the two layers of gloves.

“Good,” says Hux, giving him a curt nod, motioning at Kylo to sit in little audience chair before the desk, as if he’s here to list star system coordinates, instead of hand him what Kylo thinks might be lube. Kylo sits anyways. Hux removes his right glove with his teeth, popping the lid of the bottle with the other and generously coating himself with the contents, gleaming and thick. Afterward he’s finished, his eyes rise to Kylo’s, blue as ice chips.

“I’m going to take your virginity, now,” he says, and Kylo has nothing to say to this fucked up fantasy, nothing to say at all to anything—Hux is pushing into Mitaka; nobody in the world is a better witness than he is at this too-close, too-much moment, and Hux won’t stop staring at Kylo for one second of it.

“Stars, you’re _so tight_ ,” Hux moans, bottoming out in one slow thrust _. Oh, fuck_.

This is all for him, undeniably. Hux starts a punishing pace, each snap of his hips hiking Mitaka across the surface of the desk, but the officer has all but disappeared: Kylo is the receptacle for every synaptic spark of lust, finally savoring that feeling of fullness he first tasted all those weeks ago, back when he had no context for this sort of thing the innocuous pleasures of his spartan life were enough. Kylo’s cock pulses again tries to strangle his moan, visibly bulging in his heavy robes as he looks somewhere in himself for a last holdfast of discipline—

“Look at you, Kylo,” Hux spits, slowing for a moment to grind lackadaisically into the plushness of Mitaka’s ass, to torture Kylo a little further. “You begged me so nicely not to take you, _fuck_ you, until you’re full and defiled. Loyal to him until the last. That’s a quality I look for in my men, you know,” he babbles. “But so, horrifically lonely. Aching to finish yourself, then sighing away the compulsions, like some timid little girl. Squirming alone in your chambers at night. Needing.”

The truth of this hurts, and Kylo has to close his eyes for a moment to reconcile it. He is a traitor, in this, a weakling. _No_ , says some tiny, hardbitten thing _. A man_. Hux continues in his filthy litany, neither knowing nor caring that Kylo’s being torn further up the middle with every wickedly hot second.

“Don’t know how to take a cock, never been--” Hux grunts, “--Properly taught. Too afraid of punishment to even put a finger inside yourself.” He sucks in a breath, eyes practically rolling back in his head with the sweetness of his next epiphany: “Nothing, nobody, has ever been in you but _me_.”

Mitaka cries out, then, and Hux slaps his ass, strike on flesh to moan on forearm. Kylo can see where he’s biting into the slenderness of his wrist to keep from screaming. Kylo can also feel Mitaka’s orgasm before it comes; Hux gives a few more brutal thrusts, another stinging blow, and Mitaka spasms beneath him with a pitiful little whimper, painting the desk beneath him with pulses of white. It’s breathtaking. The arousal coiling looping knotting round and round in Kylo’s belly has reached higher than it has in years, maybe ever, if he’s honest, and he has to lean heavily onto the chair to keep from passing out. He can barely see for the haze of Mitaka’s pleasure clouding his vision, but Hux is fucking him—them, maybe—through it, punching a little moan from his officer at each slap of his hips. With a broken groan, Kylo buries the heel of his hand into his crotch; to stifle or coax higher, he isn’t sure. All he has is the sudden, nakedness of his humanity, and the assertion that _he needs something_ \--

Hux leans long over Mitaka’s back, then, blanketing him, never once breaking Kylo’s gaze.

“I know, Kylo Ren” he whispers. “How you _want_.”

Kylo can see nor hear nor feel anything when he comes, as if there is too little space in something so puny as a human body for the magnitude of his pleasure. He might scream or cry out, buck like a beast; he doesn't know. His mind is blanked, wiped clean, as it hasn’t been for centuries. Slowly, awareness, beyond the feeling of hot, wet spend in his underclothes, and the sound of Hux and Mitaka’s panting in the darkness of the office, twin to his own: The weight of his saber at his hip. The roughness of his robes, clad all against him like night. The Force, thrumming as it does, in the backdrop of the very fabric of existence.

And something new, and yet not new at all, buried beneath the lassitude of his release and his ruin: if there is pleasure to be found in those sorts of things, anymore, Kylo would be unable to recognize it.


End file.
